We all run into rough patches. Times when it seems fate just wants to mess around with us like a vindictive cat toying with a newly caught mouse. You can try and escape, you can try and turn things around, but sometimes all you can do is ride it out.
This is one of those times.
It’s January and there’s a giant blizzard on its way. The weather reports have been grim and constant, sending most people on the East Coast running for cover and fighting their way to their homes to huddle with their loved ones beside the fire.
I am alone on a cold train, hurtling along icy tracks to a casino, deep in the woods of Connecticut.
I try and spend as little time as possible in casinos and now there’s a good chance I’m going to be stuck in one, possibly forever. This is a dumb thing to do, but I have a show, and like many cold, soggy performers before me, I have no choice but to get to the gig.
I boarded in Penn Station, which is a bleak New York underground hub that makes the journey less like the start of a trip than it does a prison jailbreak.
They make everybody stand in front of a giant board that lists all the upcoming departures in rotating signage. When your train comes up for boarding, a track number is added and everyone runs off to beat the competition to the escalator that takes you belowground even more, to your dirty train. In most places this may be an organized way to shuttle travelers around; in New York it’s the beginning of a riot.
It doesn’t take more than a little pressure to watch the worst part of people’s nature rise up. What seemed like a rather docile woman carrying a Trader Joe’s bag filled with gifts for her grandchildren suddenly becomes a conniving monster, hell-bent on destroying everyone in her way. I was in her way.
This is what happens when they start delaying the departure time. You can feel the mob begin to turn because they’ve been betrayed. You kept up your part of the bargain—you bought your ticket, you showed up on time—and now it’s clear that you’ve been lied to. Anger starts to mix with nervousness, which adds to stress, which results in sweating. A lot of sweating.
This betrayal is also what has turned flying in this country into a blood sport. By chipping away at the size of the seats and the size of the overhead, by creating a separation of class even within coach, the airlines have pitted the travelers against each other in a battle that resembles a cockfight. It may not be in most people’s nature to act this way, but the airlines have a real way of drawing it out.
Once we were all on board the train, this horde of disoriented people with low blood sugar had to scramble and find a seat. Normally you try and pick the best person to sit next to, who is going to be the least offensive, less rude, and who doesn’t smell like old tacos. But today, we didn’t have the luxury of sizing anyone up; this was all about grabbing whatever seat you could find or risk having to stand in between cars like a hobo on the rails. Being picky about your seat on Amtrak doesn’t really make sense anyway. There is literally no difference between a business-class seat on Amtrak and the restroom on Amtrak.
As I settled into my seat, my stomach was making noises. My plan to eat at the end of the trip was thrown out the window thanks to the delay. I needed food and had no choice but to head to the café car. This isn’t the luxurious café car you’ve seen in the movies, unless you’ve seen a movie about people eating salty snacks with their fingers and warm beer from a can. This is the real-life café car that must have been designed and built by a farmer used to feeding livestock and smelled a lot like the men’s room at Yankee Stadium.
I was doing everything I could to get a hot dog and most of a beer in my mouth as I hung on to a railing squeezed between two gorillas in suits at the bar. I got a second beer and loaded up on pretzels and Fritos before taking the wobbly walk back to my seat.
It’s amazing what a couple of quick beers can do to the view of any apocalyptic landscape. Suddenly the people around me didn’t seem so bad. I was actually feeling pretty good. Alcohol gets the job done yet again, which speaks to the never-ending popularity of airport bars, Irish taverns, and Margaritaville. For all the talk of the dangers of climate change and economic collapse, if you really want to see the world in chaos, close the bars.
However, my good mood was short-lived as I overheard a loud businessman giving the bleak snow forecast and was reminded that I was on a train to a prison filled with slot machines.
If you like to gamble, this probably sounds pretty good. My father loves to gamble, because he’s actually won a bunch of times so he knows what that feels like. I have no idea what that experience is like. Not only do I not win but I can change the luck of a table just by looking at it.
When I was a kid we would vacation at the Jersey Shore, about an hour away from Atlantic City. The entire time we were swimming in the ocean and making sandcastles he was plotting his escape, which always involved bringing me along as if it were a father-and-son outing.
I knew what he was up to. He really wanted no part of me and my bad mojo when he was gambling, but he figured he could bring me along, toss me twenty dollars to go play the slots with the other ladies, and he’d be free to gamble the night away.
I kind of enjoyed it. The cocktail waitresses give out free drinks when you gamble, without checking your ID. So I’d play some games, order some gin and tonics, and hang out with the seniors who came down on the bus.
The old people never asked my age, they were just happy to have someone to talk to. They liked to gossip, and after a couple of drinks I was filled with questions and strong opinions.
“What do you mean she didn’t give you your dish back? That’s just plain rude,” I’d say as Delores lit my cigarette. “If you ask me, I’d say she’s a little jealous of you.”
We’d play the slots until our money ran out, smoke a couple more cigarettes, and have a good old time. I didn’t realize it then, but I was definitely being flirted with. There are only so many times an eighty-year-old woman accidentally puts her hand on your lap.
Eventually I’d get tired and want to go home. There was no use asking my father to leave, he would have stayed there the rest of his life if he could. I knew that if I wanted to go, I would have to use my superpower to end whatever lucky streak he had going on.
He was once on a hot streak playing craps, throwing dice to the screaming encouragement of the crowd he was helping to win. I could see he was having a good time and probably winning a good amount of money, but I was tired. So I walked up and stood behind him, and for the first time in an hour he threw craps. The crowd groaned, went silent, and walked away. The fun was over. He didn’t even have to turn around; he knew I was there.
“I’ll get the car,” he mumbled.
I get why people want to go. These casinos are expertly designed with the right amount of flash and noise to keep people amused and entertained. But even for those who enjoy being there, it’s a nervous system overload. And when you’re there for work, which was why I was headed there, it’s as amusing as a colonoscopy.
The train was rocking back and forth from the wind that was just ahead of the coming storm. I looked at the weather app on my phone and the radar showed a monster storm, bigger than five states, that seemed to be moving just as fast as we were.
I was returning to a comedy club up there that I hadn’t played in a couple of years, where the crowds are really drunk and obnoxious. You might think that there’s no way the crowd could be the same as when I was there two years ago, but you’d be wrong. Certain places bring out a certain something in people.
The casino is about an hour’s drive from the train station through normally beautiful countryside. This was the land of the Mohegan tribe who sued the U.S. government to get their land back and by gaining a sovereign reservation were allowed to build a casino and restore their wealth. I’m not sure if this really made everybody “even steven,” but it definitely helped. I wonder why we never hear about giving casinos to African Americans throughout the South. It might be something to consider.
We finally pulled into the station and everyone scrambled through the light snow into their families’ cars. In the old days, about three years ago, I’d have to take a taxi driven by a man of questionable moral standing who was very likely drunk. Now I order up an Uber, which is pretty much the same guy who drives his own car.
I was nauseated and my head hurt and his car smelled like old shoes. In moments like this I just need to stop moving. Literally. That’s the hardest part of being on the road, the constant motion. I sometimes feel like an astronaut in training who never gets past the vomit rocket stage.
For the first time in my career I have uttered the words “I’m away too much.” There’s a steeliness that one needs in order to not be lonesome on the road. This isn’t a disregard for the joy of being home and spending time with your family. But at the same time, if I were to wrap myself around my home life like a giant quilt, I would never leave.
And I have to leave. It’s my job to leave. I think.
I was late. I checked into my room, which I have to say was pretty nice. I showered and headed down to the club. My buddy Andy was the opening act, and he was onstage doing his best and that normally is enough to get the crowd going. But not tonight. This crowd was off. My mood started to sour.
Any hope I had of getting through the night unscathed disappeared as soon as I got onstage. Immediately after my introduction, someone in the third row threw up on his table. When someone throws up it’s like a bomb going off. In slow motion I could see everyone recoil, fall back on their chairs, and take cover. The drunk guy just looked around like he was just as surprised as anybody else.
The night was horrible. The crowd was so drunk and loud that they started heckling each other. There I was in a suit and tie, thousands of miles from home, performing material I have worked on for the last two years in front of what was essentially a bachelor party. It’s difficult in these moments to hate not only the entire audience but all of mankind.
I walked offstage and into the elevator, went back to my room, and peeled off my clothes. What were flurries a mere three hours before was now a blizzard pounding into my windows on the thirty-fifth floor.
The owner of the club had given me Rice Krispies Treats that his wife had made. I was so hungry that I ate two immediately. They must have had something in them because within a half hour I couldn’t feel my hands.
I don’t remember how I got there, but I suddenly found myself at the slots, drinking a gin and tonic with a group of old ladies, like the good old days. We must have had a good time because when I woke up in the morning there was bright red lipstick on my cheeks.
Fighting a terrible headache, I looked out the window and the entire world was white. The storm was fierce. I checked my phone. The Saturday night shows were canceled, as was my flight the next day, along with all the other flights that were leaving from the Hartford airport.
Just as I had forecasted, I was very stuck. And very alone.
I wandered downstairs to the casino. Even the people who came here on their own looked depressed. The slot machines didn’t jingle as much as sigh. I looked around the way someone does after being hit in the head, trying to make sense of the world.
My initial instinct was to eat and drink. Maybe a large fried-egg sandwich and spicy Bloody Mary would change things around or at least bring a little of the humor back to the situation. Most of the restaurants were closed. The blizzard not only had trapped the guests in the hotel but had snowed the workers in their homes.
“Dude! You were hilarious!”
A big lug in an even bigger flannel shirt came running up to me. He was covered in snow and looked like a snowman who just came in from hunting.
“Oh, thanks,” I said as I reluctantly shook his hand.
“What are you doing now?”
“I’m not sure.” I really wasn’t.
His energy was frantic and too determined for this sleepy, snowed-in morning. I was really afraid he was going to ask me to play in the snow with him and slowly started moving away.
“When do you go home?”
“Depends on the storm, I guess, the airport’s closed.”
“Yeah, but Newark’s open.”
“That doesn’t help me.”
“Why, they don’t fly to L.A.?” He laughed and punched me in the arm with his snowy fist.
“I mean, I’m not in Newark. I’m stuck in a casino in the ass end of Connecticut.”
“Yeah, but dude, I’m going to Jersey and I have a truck.”
“Uh … what, now?”
“Yeah, man, go get your shit. I mean, if you want to. I’ll drive you there.”
“Are you sure? Aren’t the roads closed?”
“Dude, we don’t need roads. We have a truck!”
Yes, we did. We did have a truck. And a man who was a part of that horrible crowd that was out to kill me ended up being one of the funniest and kindest people I had met all year. We laughed, skidded, and bonded all the way to Jersey, and pretty quickly, too.
Before I knew it, I was headed home in a cramped middle seat, nibbling on Cheez-Itz. Who can complain about that?